Intentional Acts Read online

“I don’t have time for this. And I don’t like being jerked around. Start talking.”

  “We haven’t seen any friends coming to visit Wheaton or anything like that, just like Chuck said. He’s been home all evening, with his woman. It’s raining pretty good, so they’ve been inside most of the night. Looks like they’re playing cards. But … we’re not the only ones watching the house.”

  He waited.

  “We saw shoeprints behind the shed or garage or whatever you want to call it. Chuck noticed them.”

  “Good for Chuck.”

  Marcus hurried on, his voice a little higher, a little tighter. “Chuck says they were made by men’s dress shoes, and they didn’t appear to be fresh. But we had a look around anyway. Saw some broken down brush and flattened grass but that was it. Until about an hour or so ago. Right around nine o’clock. Well, maybe a little later. I’m not rightly sure, actually.”

  Fletch clenched his teeth together to keep himself from exploding. Marcus was hemming and hawing like a punk. Mercifully, Chuck must’ve wrestled the phone back from him.

  “The feds are watching Wheaton, too, Fletcher. An SUV drives by down on the road—that’s unusual enough to be noteworthy all by itself. But about ten minutes later, I’m doing a sweep of the area with my night vision binoculars, and I spot a man walking up the hill just behind this line of trees. He’s a big guy, clean cut. He’s wearing a black windbreaker, black slacks, black dress shoes. No visible weapon. But he’s just creeping along in the pouring rain. He vanishes behind the house for a while and we regain visuals on him on the far side of the barn structure. He’s got his own night goggles and he looks like he’s hunkered down for a while.”

  Fletcher’s gut seized. He could tell his blood pressure was shooting up by the loud pounding of his pulse in his temple.

  “Crap.”

  “Do you think he’s FBI?” Chuck’s voice was strained, full of terror.

  “Be quiet for a damned minute and let me think.”

  Chuck fell silent.

  Fletcher squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the skin at the bridge of his nose hard enough to clear his mind.

  “Okay, find out who this guy is.”

  “How?”

  “Criminy, you’re the blasted security expert, remember? I dunno, send Marcus down to the road to find the SUV and get the plates. Rifle through his glove box if the guy was a total dumbass and left the vehicle unlocked. Try to get a picture of him with the long-distance lens. Just figure it out.”

  “Right, okay. Should we …?”

  It took a moment for Fletcher to figure out what the unasked question was. When it hit him, he felt like his heart might explode right there in the dirty hallway of Denny’s illegal poker room. “What? Kill a federal agent? No, you gold-plated moron. Don’t go anywhere near him and for Chrissake, whatever you do, don’t let him see you.”

  “We won’t. Got it,” Chuck promised in a hurry.

  “Good. But when you get a chance, take Wheaton out.”

  There was silence on the line.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yeah, I heard you. Are you sure about this? Don’t you want to find out why he left or … anything?”

  “No. Just kill him. If the feds are on to him, we’re all exposed. Essiah Wheaton will sing like he’s the special guest star at the CMAs and we’ll all go down. You, me, all of us. You have to get to him before this FBI guy or whoever he is. Understand?”

  Chuck answered in a slow, heavy voice, “I understand.” After a long pause, he said, “What about the woman, Karen?”

  Fletcher thought. If Wheaton’s gal was Karen Leander, he wouldn’t have told her a blasted thing. Her people were one step removed from hippie communists. And if she was some random skirt he’d picked up, he wouldn’t have told her anything in that case either. Wheaton was running from his past. He’d hardly advertise it. And Fletcher didn’t want the blood of an innocent white woman on his hands.

  “Don’t worry about her. Just get rid of Wheaton as fast as you can.”

  He clicked off his phone and shoved it in his pocket. Then he scrubbed his hands over his face and headed back into the poker hall to distract himself until the iron fist of panic wrapped around his throat eased its grip.

  Leo shifted his weight, let the night vision goggles dangle around his neck, and shoved his hands under his windbreaker, wiping them on his shirt in a futile effort to dry them. He was soaked through. Every stitch of clothing from his socks to his undershirt was soggy. His thick hair was drenched with water that had managed to find its way under his hood in steady rivulets.

  He was cold and tired and so very bored.

  Essiah Wheaton and his lady friend were several hours into what appeared to be a quiet evening at home. They moved around the kitchen from time to time, pouring drinks and grabbing snacks from their pantry and then returned to what appeared to be the world’s longest game of rummy.

  He exhaled and lifted the glasses to his eyes again. As if they’d heard him, the couple cleaned up the cards from the table and put them back in the deck.

  Good. Maybe they’d move on to something more exciting. Something like cleaning some assault rifles or counting big piles of counterfeit money. Even bagging up some street drugs for sale. He wasn’t going to be picky.

  Wheaton said something over his shoulder as he put the cards away in a tall cabinet. She tossed back her head and laughed, exposing her white throat. Wheaton reached into the cabinet and pulled out ….

  Leo leaned forward, holding his breath. He adjusted the magnification on the binoculars and zoomed in on the item in Wheaton’s hands. And then he groaned. … A five-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle of Hogwarts Castle.

  He pushed off his heels and turned his back on the house. He’d had enough. If Hank—or Ingrid, for that matter, thought he was going to stand out in the rain all night and watch Essiah Wheaton put together a jigsaw puzzle, they were dead wrong.

  This guy wasn’t a domestic terrorist. He was a game-loving homebody.

  He pulled out his cell phone and pressed Hank’s contact.

  As he tromped through the muddy grass, he waited for the call to connect.

  “What’ve you got?” Hank said by way of greeting.

  “A cold, probably. Maybe pneumonia.”

  There was a pause.

  “No activity?”

  “Oh, no, there was lots of activity. He played cards. Popped some popcorn. Played some more cards. Ate candy. They’re getting ready to start a puzzle now.”

  “A puzzle? Like, a code, maybe?”

  Leo laughed at the hopeful note in Hank’s voice. “Uh, no, like a five-thousand piece puzzle of the castle from Harry Potter. The worst thing I can say about this guy is he has lousy taste in beer. He’s into that hoppy IPA stuff.”

  Hank refused to be derailed. “Are you sure he didn’t make you? Maybe he’s putting on a show for you.”

  “Please. This guy is just living his life. And, of course he didn’t make me.”

  A twig cracked somewhere to his left. The sound echoed in the quiet night like a shot. Leo froze mid-step, the phone pressed to his ear.

  “I don’t think the system would flag him as a member of the Heritage Brotherhood if he was just some random dweeb. The algorithms don’t make that kind of—”

  “Shhh.”

  Hank fell silent. Leo turned his head in the direction and listened harder, straining to hear through the constant beat of the rain.

  There. Someone or something was thrashing through the bush.

  “There’s something out here. I gotta go,” he whispered.

  “Probably just a raccoon. Or a deer. Call me when it’s safe,” Hank said as Leo thumbed off the phone.

  He stuck the device back into his pocket and removed the Glock from its holster. He prowled toward the noise, moving at a steady pace. Not fast, not slow. He matched his breathing to his footfalls. Even, measured.

  He reached an opening between two bushes and stopped.
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br />   The person—or animal—had crashed through these bushes. He crouched and aimed his flashlight at the muddy ground. Already the rain was washing away the tracks that had been left. And he was no expert tracker. But the indentations looked like footprints to him.

  He stood and shone the light in a wide arc but saw no fleeing figures. Heard no vehicle engines springing to life. After several minutes, he turned back to the house.

  Maybe Wheaton was a master criminal and the noise had been a diversion to distract him so he and the woman could flee? He trained the glasses on the window.

  No, the master criminal and his partner were seated at the table, their heads bent over their puzzle.

  Leo holstered his gun, pushed his wet hair off his forehead, and returned to the path.

  17

  Leo shook his head and gripped the steering wheel tighter.

  “It wasn’t an animal,” he insisted, narrowly resisting the impulse to shout at his boss.

  Hank’s voice cracked through the SUV’s Bluetooth speakers, measured and unconcerned. “Then maybe some teenagers were out looking for a spot to party or canoodle.”

  “In the middle of a torrential downpour?”

  “Love knows no limits, Leo.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not what that quote means.” He shivered and cranked up the heat. If he couldn’t be dry, at least he could be warm.

  “I don’t know what to tell you. If you didn’t see the guy …”

  “I don’t like it. Is there any chance another unit could be running a parallel investigation?”

  While he waited for Hank’s answer, he listened to the rhythmic shick, shick, shick of the wipers pushing water off the windshield.

  Finally, Hank spoke. “I can’t say for sure. The Heritage Brotherhood’s alleged activities would put them squarely on the radar of half a dozen agencies, and who knows how many teams and special task forces. Could one or more of them be interested in our boy? Definitely.”

  “So you think—”

  “Let me finish. If there’s another active mission involving this target, I’m confident Ingrid doesn’t know anything about it. She wouldn’t keep us in the dark about something like that.”

  Leo nodded along in silent agreement. Ingrid had always struck him as a straight shooter.

  Hank gave a dark laugh and continued, “If nothing else, she’d want to avoid the public relations nightmare of two federal agents accidentally shooting each other in a target’s backyard.”

  “When did you get so cynical?”

  “When a kill order landed in my lap,” Hank countered.

  Another long silence followed. Leo drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

  “So what’s the play?”

  “I don’t know, Leo. I really don’t. If you really don’t think Wheaton is good for it ….”

  “I don’t. My gut’s telling me he might be hiding something but he’s not a killer. Let alone an ideological killer.”

  “I can’t go back to Ingrid with your gut.”

  “And I can’t kill a man I know to be innocent. Correction: I won’t kill a man I believe to be innocent. I won’t do it.” The heat in his voice surprised him. But he knew he couldn’t assassinate Essiah Wheaton. It wouldn’t be a justified kill.

  “You know I’ll back you on this. But you have to get me something solid.”

  Hank’s words landed like a punch.

  “I don’t have anything solid to give you.”

  “So, go get something.”

  Hank ended the call. Leo pounded the steering wheel in frustration. He stared at the blurred lights reflecting off the rain-slicked road ahead as he merged onto Interstate 76. It would be quicker to take the highway home at this hour of night, under these driving conditions than to cut off a handful of miles by following the dark twisting, turning back roads his GPS unit was suggesting.

  Besides, highway driving caused him to enter an almost-meditative state. Maybe he could set his mind to work on a way to get Hank the solid evidence he wanted while he made his way home. He took several deep breaths and set his brain to work.

  Several miles later, he nearly missed the exit for Interstate 276, which shot straight through the heart of Pittsburgh. As he swerved into the exit lane, he had a better idea.

  He checked his mirrors—nobody was out driving on a night like this unless they had to be, so traffic was lighter than light. He yanked the wheel to the left and moved back into the travel lane, continuing south on I-79, headed for the airport.

  He parked in the short-term lot and made a note to submit the no-doubt outrageous charge to Hank for reimbursement when he returned. He used the long trip on the people mover to attend to his appearance as best he could. He tousled his hair with his hands then raked his fingers through the still-damp strands so they were standing in spikes. It had to be an improvement over the plastered down, drowned rat look.

  He’d left the windbreaker in the car. His shoes still squelched with every step, but his socks were halfway to dry. On a scale of frightening to dashing, he deemed himself presentable. Good enough to charm his way onto an airplane? He’d soon find out.

  He presented himself at the ticketing desk and flashed his most winsome smile. The tired agent arched an eyebrow. Not in the mood to be sweet-talked.

  “What was your flight number? I’ll see if I can rebook you tonight. If not, we’re offering hotel vouchers,” she said in a monotone.

  His smile widened. As he’d hoped, the storms would turn in his favor. Usually, he’d have missed the last flight to Houston, but the lightning and wind had resulted in a ground stop earlier in the evening. He might be able to get on a plane, after all.

  “I wasn’t booked. But I need to get on the next plane going to Texas.”

  “Texas is a big state, sir.”

  “Houston, if possible. But I’m not picky.” He grinned again.

  Still no mirroring smile from the ticketing agent, but her frown loosened. “That’s good to hear, because there are several hundred stranded travelers tonight with very definite ideas about where they want to go, and when. Even if there is a flight out tonight, at best you’ll be on the waitlist.”

  Her fingers flew over the keys. He waited. No reason to play his trump card unless a flight was leaving.

  She murmured, her eyes glued to her monitor. “Hmm. There’s a nonstop leaving in forty minutes. Wait … it’s full. Let me see about tomorrow morning …”

  He leaned toward the desk and lowered his voice. “Ma’am, I’m a federal agent working for the Department of Homeland Security. And I need to get on that plane.”

  She pulled her head up fast, eyes alert, all business. “Is there a situation?”

  “Not on the flight.”

  He didn’t say there was a situation in Houston, but it was fine by him if she thought there was. He flashed his old U.S. Marshal ID at her. Hank and Ingrid had arranged for him to keep it, for occasions just like these. Working for a task force that didn’t officially exist was slightly easier with the cover of a department that did exist.

  She studied it for a moment then returned to her clacking. “I can get you on in first class. Are you carrying a weapon?”

  “Yes.”

  She hit some more keys and her machine spit out a boarding pass. She tucked it into a paper jacket and handed it to him with a tentative smile. “You’re pre-cleared, and the flight’s boarding, Agent Connelly.”

  He noted her name tag. “Thank you, Jennipher.”

  She stood a little straighter. “No, thank you. For what you do.”

  He gave her a two-finger salute before he turned and jogged toward the gate.

  He did this job for people like Jennipher, who believed in their government and trusted it to protect them while still preserving their rights. And people like Jennipher deserved better than the assassination of their fellow Americans without a damn good reason.

  He picked up his pace and ran the rest of the way.

  18

>   Sasha slept fitfully. At three-thirty, she woke up for the third time, parched and hot. She stretched out an arm. Connelly’s side of the bed was still empty. The sheets cool and unwrinkled.

  She padded to the bathroom. She didn’t bother to turn on the light. She poured a glass of water from the sink and drank it in a long gulp. Then she returned to the bedroom, flicked on the ceiling fan, and claimed Connelly’s side of the bed.

  He could have it back when he came home.

  She turned onto her stomach. The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle. She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of its patter on the roof mingling with the slow, low swish of the fan’s paddles as they rotated lazily through the still air.

  Where was he, anyway?

  She opened her eyes and flipped onto her back. After a long moment of staring at the ceiling, she sighed and reached to turn on the lamp on her bedside table. She opened the small drawer in the table and removed her phone.

  After reading the eightieth article about the disastrous effects of light on the sleep cycle, she’d made a serious effort to shut down her devices two hours before bedtime and never check them during one of her bouts of insomnia.

  But, she made an exception when her husband was out running around in the middle of the night in the rain with a gun.

  She propped herself up against the headboard and slid her finger across the display. Her notifications showed no missed calls, too many new emails, and one text. She opened the text message.

  Something came up. At airport. Plane’s taking off in 5. Should be back tomorrow. Will call when I can. Love you.

  She stared at the phone. Her throat tightened and her pulse fluttered. The text had come in just before midnight.

  This was all wrong. Connelly didn’t go out of town in the middle of the night unannounced. If he had to travel for work, he did all the laundry before he left; stocked the freezer with meals she could defrost; and arranged for someone to take care of the twins and walk the dog while she worked. It was adorable, really. He seemed to think the household would fall apart if she were left to her own devices.